The Big, the Bold, and the Confidential
by Desired Constellation
Summary: In Hermione’s 7th year at Hogwarts, her seemingly perfect existence as Head Girl is shaken up by the return of Oliver Wood as a flying instructor, as they commence their tumultuous, and did I mention clandestine?, relationship.
1. Prologue: The Clash

(You have permission to skip to the beginning of the story if you don't want to bother with reading an old coot's ramblings.) Greetings, my fellow addicts! Now that it's summer, I'm completely hooked, and even decided to write my own – primarily because there just aren't enough Hermione/Oliver stories out there. Well…I hope it won't be a total bomb, but I suppose that's your (the reader's) job to decide whether it is or not. ). Now why don't I stop talking myself in circles and let you get on with your reading!

**Disclaimer** (I actually read Terms of Service page, trying to find out once and for all whether these things were ACTUALLY necessary or not…and I deduced that drumroll making one couldn't hurt, right?): I hereby yield all ownership of citations and characters referred to, applicable for all chapters.

**Synopsis:** In Hermione's 7th year at Hogwarts Secondary, her seemingly perfect existence as Head Girl is shaken up by the return of Oliver Wood as a flying instructor, as they commence their tumultuous (and did I mention clandestine?) relationship.

– Prologue: The Clash –

Hermione never predicted that she'd be the subject of an accidental voyeur. At least, not one on a broomstick. And certainly not Oliver Wood. It was an afternoon like any other -- well, not really. A Quidditch game was taking place, the Hogwarts castle virtually deserted by the students who scrambled to witness the enthralling match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Hermione, though wanting to partake in the excitement as much as everyone else, forced herself to remain in her dorm to complete a Potions assignment with a deadline that was fast approaching.

_Honestly, doesn't anybody else realize that schoolwork may actually sometimes _be_ the foremost priority?_ the third-year reasoned in her mind. Then, with a more vehement conviction, thought, _And can't Snape be more sympathetic in doling out due dates? Honestly_!

Hermione threw down her quill, having suddenly lost the desire to work. Besides, it was sweltering in the stuffy dorm room. Being late spring, the sun seemed to constantly shine with an unrelenting heat – rendering the entire student body incessantly restless in their thick school robes. Already in only a blouse and skirt (a scanty combination already, in conservative girl's opinion), Hermione wiped the sweat off her brow and made a futile attempt to sweep back her wild hair. Not being able to take it anymore, she stripped down to her undergarments, reasoning that her dorm mates wouldn't return until much later, seeing as the festivities of the game were presumably still in full swing.

_I feel like a caged wild animal_, pondered the fourteen-year old with some amusement. She got up to walk around, relishing the circulation of cool air wisping from the open window and kissing her skin.

Feeling even more daring, she traipsed to face her full length mirror and gave herself a complete assessment. Save for the bird's nest crowning her face, the girl deemed herself to be positively plain and pale from the lack of outdoor activity. Or any activity at all, for that matter. This past year Hermione had stood back and watched (with a mixture of awe and disgust) as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil grew from girls to young women -- applying makeup by wand (deemed by Hermione to be a very dangerous and inessential habit, however much attention they garnered afterwards), and going out with older boys. Put it this way: If Hermione had a sickle for every time she saw Lavender share a pumpkin juice shake with Ernie McMillan at Hogsmeade, she'd be able to purchase a Firebolt for every single member of the Weasley family. (Not that they'd accept the charity of a girl who profited off glowering jealously at happy couples in her spare time or anything.)

Hermione began to get silly. She pouted like a muggle movie star, blowing a kiss to her reflection. She raised her arms above her head and danced, swiveling her hips from side to side. One thing the girl liked about herself was her flat stomach -- though she would probably never have the courage to show it off. Hermione flexed her biceps, bursting out in laughter as she realized how skinny her arms were. She checked out her butt, clad in her lacy lilac panties. It was slight and firm -- certainly no J.Lo, but she supposed it would suffice. Laughing once more, she 'shook what her momma gave her', and flopped back onto her bed, completely uninhibited. Man, she forgot how fun it was when no one was around to judge and ridicule her. It was then that Hermione became conscious of how sad it was that this was the single most exhilarating thing that she had done in a long while.

"That was absolutely titillating."

Hermione rolled over, thinking it was the mirror talking, but to her surprise, saw two eyes peering out at her from the open window. She shrieked in surprise, promptly wrapping herself in red and gold bed sheets and throwing "Hogwarts: A History" at the intruder.

Wood caught the book purely by reflex, the realization of who he was staring at dawning upon him. "H-Hold on...Oh shit, you're Potter's mate, aren't you?" He inquired, suddenly looking like he was in trouble and backing up slowly. However, Oliver just couldn't seem to tear his eyes away.

"Stop staring, you pervert!" she screeched in horror, and threw another book. This time, The Monster Book of Monsters caught Oliver directly in the chin, clinging and clawing with its teeth. He cried aloud and dove out of sight. Hermione gasped and ran to the window sill, half-hoping that his eyes had been clawed out, but at the same time not wanting the poor boy to plummet to certain death!

She spotted him struggling to stay aloft while simultaneously trying to tame the literally monstrous book. "Oh no..."

_Please don't die_ _or become incapacitated beyond repair_, Hermione panicked, imagining the possibly horrible repercussions that could ensue. The entire school's population would eat her alive when they found out that she had been the cause of the beloved Oliver Wood's untimely, gruesome death -- finding him at the trunk of the Whomping Willow next to a shatter broomstick, his beautiful face mauled by a textbook that was deemed to be hers, and his gorgeous body too mutilated even for a wizarding autopsy. Goodbye promising career in professional Quidditch, goodbye beautiful family with many Quidditch-inclined offspring who _could_ have had their own promising careers in the sport had Hermione not have overreacted and killed the would-be legendary Oliver Wood. Hmm. This could potentially turn very _very_ ugly.

The girl had become so preoccupied with imagining the grotesque consequences of her actions when the person who had previously been put in a very compromising position resurfaced at her window.

"I believe this is yours, Miss Granger," he said, extremely sheepish and disheveled, "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

Hermione took the book, noticing that it had been hit several times over with the Immobulus charm, and set it down on her bedside table, where it purred demurely. "Well I hope you've learned a lesson, you peeping tom. What did you think you were doing?" she demanded haughtily.

"I've learned my lesson, _believe_ me. I just thought you were my girlfriend -- Wait, let me rephrase that -- I thought you were Celia. Celia Evans."

Hermione blushed a little at this comment -- Celia was possibly the most beautiful girl in seventh year, however air-headed she had been known to be. "Well, of course I'm not. Don't you think she'd be watching you at your game?"

"It's over. We won!" he rejoiced, still energetic from the adrenaline rush that sports would give a person -- not that Hermione would know. "And yeah... I suppose that'd make sense. My apologies, miss," he offered, looking at her with intense hazel eyes.

Hermione mumbled something incoherent, having to exert all her willpower in order to resist the undeniable charm of the famous Oliver Wood. He was infamous for womanizing unsuspecting, impressionable young girls for his own entertainment. Hermione had to be careful in order to guard herself against such philandering types of men.

"Really sorry to interrupt your seduction of the mirror."

This offended her. "Oh sod off!" she replied, shoving him away from her window, sending him on a tailspin only to land safely on the lawn below. It was almost surreal to watch as friends, fans, and fanatics instantly swarmed the Quidditch Captain and carried him on their shoulders into the building.

Hermione shut the window, practically breathless from the encounter. What happened just now was wrong, sexist, and against many of the principles she strived so hard to uphold. Yet...

'Oh OLIVER_...'_ she thought with longing, and let herself flop backwards onto her bed, the prospect of completing the Potions assignment completely gone from her mind.

–

Alright, bonus points for whoever can pinpoint the Shakespearean connection in this chapter.


	2. A Fresh Start?

Alright! Two day gap between chapters. I must say that that's a record of some sort. Not. Anyway, please enjoy:

– **Chapter Two: A Fresh Start** –

Four years later, Hermione Granger – Head Girl extraordinaire and doting girlfriend of the Boy Who Lived (Harry Potter himself) -- strolled down one of Hogwarts' many corridors in a regal mien, with perfect posture and high nose. It was a wonderful day for learning, she predicted emphatically – despite having stormed out of Divination so long ago ((A/N: Get it? Predicted? Divination? Ha-ha, okay that wasn't as funny as I originally though it was)).

"Creevey, must I constantly have to remind you to tuck your shirt in?" she chided the sixth year while still maintaining the speed of her gait. Hermione had almost mastered the art of simultaneously reprimanding others and carrying on with life. It was practically her hobby, save for studying and saving the world from the Dark Lord. It had been a wild ride, but nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – was going to blemish what she hoped would be her perfect last year.

"Accio dung bomb," muttered Hermione, as she retrieved the horrid gizmo from the troublesome Lysander Strife. If he had a twin, the two would present a striking caricature of the memorable Fred and George Weasley. Hermione didn't stall or look back, even if she heard him call her a prig. As Head Girl, she was constantly on the receiving end of a lot of sass from younger students – but it was all detailed in the job description, was it not?

Feeling absolutely ravenous as she finally reached the Great Hall, Hermione scanned the echoing cavern of a room for her regular mates, hoping to catch up on things over supper. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown waved at her to come and join them, probably to recount their latest exciting romantic excursion. Hermione graciously declined; it took much prior bracing until she was ready to discuss wizarding contraceptives and whatnot.

She briefly caught the eye of Draco Malfoy at the far table that hosted the Slytherin house. He had surprisingly obtained the rank of her counterpart – Head Boy – and since then had become a regular feature in her life. He actually wasn't so insufferable anymore ever since his widely-publicized emancipation from the known Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. It was all over the news, even starting a revolution of virtuous offspring detaching themselves from embarrassing and hateful relationships with their Death Eater parents. Though the two had not established what would by definition be called a 'friendship', Hermione and Draco proved to be compatible colleagues who contributed their various talents and knack for authority to the student government. Hermione nodded curtly, half-smiling, as Draco did the same and carried on with an avid conversation with the puggish Pansy Parkinson. Mutual respect was really something to be cherished.

Hermione fingered her badge, wondering where her two best friends were. She sighed, finding Neville Longbottom and bidding him good evening.

"'Lo, 'Mione," he mumbled glumly.

"What's wrong, Neville?" she inquired, eagerly grabbing a dinner roll from a basket burgeoning with them. Neville was usually sullen these days, though he had a scrap of dignity left to keep from letting others know exactly _why_. Hermione assumed it had something to do with his parents and their permanent residence at Mungo's, but she had the sense not to press the matter – but instead lent him her friendship and understanding. It made good character building, exactly what Hermione needed if she was to become a successful individual in life. Hermione dismissed the inkling that she could be too analytical sometimes in interacting with others, instead thinking that one _had_ to be assertive in order to get anywhere in life.

"Oh, nothing. Can't you tell that I'm in an optimistic mood today?" he replied in the same gloomy voice.

"R-really? _Oh_, well then GOOD for you Neville!" she chimed, smiling and nodding assuredly.

"Look, you don't have to treat me like I'm a mental patient, you know. It's not hereditary or anything!" he snapped suddenly, which made the atmosphere between them quite dour. "Actually, it's just...somebody slashed my mimbulus Mimbletonia during the night. It'll take ages for it to recuperate."

"What! Why would somebody pick on such a defenseless plant?" Hermione demanded, feinting a somewhat outraged disposition.

"Well...it's not exactly defenseless. The culprit was covered in pus -- that's how we caught him."

"Who was it?"

"Umm..." Neville hesitated.

"What? Tell me who it was so I can do justice to this crime!"

"Well...that's the thing, Hermione. Erm, uhh..." Neville had a hard time trying to break it to the avid abider of rules. "Not – not everything's as big a deal as you – you might sometimes sort of make it seem like…kind of. I mean, erm, even you've broken the rules before and maybe it wouldn't hurt to overlook some things once in a while...you know? Just a little bit?" Neville stuttered through his elaboration, the look of fear quite evident in his eyes.

Hermione pursed her lips so tight that her cheeks dimpled. "How could you say such a thing?" she hissed, barely audible. "I am HEAD GIRL. I have standards to uphold and enforce. It's not like anybody else cares about order around here -- so SOMEBODY has to!" She carnally stabbed her fork into a poor, defenseless chicken steak.

"You maybe...You could...You have to see, Hermione. Not all of us are so...so...adamant when it comes to these things..." At each word, Neville seemed to shrink further and further into his seat.

Hermione inhaled sharply, at which the round-faced boy flinched as if pain was being inflicted upon him. She was about to plunge into a rectifying lecture about integrity and moral values when suddenly an awed silence fell about the room. What was going on? Surely she would have been notified of a public announcement beforehand.

Headmaster Dumbledore stood and clinked his goblet to signify that he was about to give a speech. "Students, staff, ghosts," he began, his voicing booming to the very corners of the hall, "I am regretfully sorry to interrupt your meal – I myself was enjoying quite a lovely kidney pie. But I've an important announcement to make, one that we cannot afford to hold off any longer..."

Dumbledore carried on speaking in quite high regard for this mysterious bit of news. Hermione tried to figure out whether it was grave or celebratory. She honestly had no clue.

"...As you all know, our esteemed Madame Hooch has been nursing the concussion she received from refereeing last week's Quidditch tournament. That bludger _was_ speeding towards her head at quite an alarming rate when the collision occurred." For those who were looking for it, they could see the Headmaster sneak a reproachful glance at the culprit Beater at the Slytherin table. "And since she will be absent from our presence for the next semester, we have hastily found a worthy replacement. He is an alumnus of this school, having graduated a mere four years ago. Since then, he has been recruited by the Puddlemere United as their backup Keeper..."

_Oh No..._Hermione thought. She had definitely not been able to erase the memory of the voyeur debacle from her mind.

"It is both my pleasure and privilege to present to you...Oliver Wood!"

A deafening roar erupted from the Hall – Hogwarts had obviously remembered the famous ex-Gryffindor Keeper very well. Boys were still caught in a jealous admiration for his uncanny ability to defend his goal; the girls never ceased to faun over his athletic body, smouldering eyes and charming wit. Hermione just couldn't see – or maybe she just refused to see – what the rest of the student body was so star-struck about. He wasn't so special…only a top-notch athlete and a fine physical specimen with a sharp brain to match…No, he wasn't so special at_ all_…

Her memory of him was a seventeen-year old boy on a broomstick. The man that walked into the Great Hall today seemed one and the same, yet at the same time wholly different. He carried himself differently. Prouder? More introverted? No, just differently. He exuded an air of subdued modesty now, different from the hotheaded big-shot demeanour she was used to. He seemed darker, more jaded. It was sexy.

_No it's not!_ Hermione's conscience argued. She pursed her lips again, realizing that her mouth had been slightly agape. Hermione had a hard time concentrating on what Mr. Wood was saying to the room.

"...Lastly, it is all my pleasure to be able to finally give back to the school which has taught me so much. Besides, I've got to make sure the Quidditch teams haven't turned into _too _much of a disappointment since the good ol' days..."

The school's population burst into appreciative guffaws of laughter. _Why? WHAT FOR?_ Hermione demanded inwardly. _He didn't say anything remotely funny!_

Dumbledore stood once more to say his closing comments and the students dispersed, talking avidly of the phenomenon that just occurred. Hermione stormed out, suddenly in a bad mood as she confiscated every sub-legal item on the way.

"Accio! Accio! Accio!" she spat. Hermione wondered exactly why she acting so moody – it wasn't like Oliver Wood did anything so very bad to her...Then again, he _had_ spied on her when she was fourteen (thinking it was his girlfriend, but still), and he did tease. But it was she who had psychotically chucked the textbooks at his face, and ended up nearly killing the boy. _Whatever. I'm a girl. I have the right to PMS. Why should I bloody care?_

Hermione was so intent on reaching her dorm room that she collided straight into Harry and Ron. who had smiles the size of bananas.

"What are you so happy about?" she glowered, before adding, "And where have you two been? I was looking for you."

Harry and Ron looked at each other in a confidential sort of way, still beaming. Like flustered little schoolgirls, Harry started, "We were chosen – "

"Hand-picked, actually," butted in Ron.

"We were specially hand-picked by Dumbledore to be Oliver's escorts to the building today, and we're going to be his personal assistants for his class during his entire stay!" finished Harry, as if Christmas had come early and sitting under his tree (no sexual innuendo intended) was Cho Chang wrapped scantily in ribbon and nothing else.

"Oh...well, I'm ecstatic for you both," replied Hermione in quite a less-than-ecstatic tone.

Unfazed, the two stooges hurried off, no doubt to provide their hospitable services to Mr. Wood. Why did he even need escorts? The man had gone to the same school himself for seven years, and she doubted that Hogwarts had undergone any major renovations since he left.

At half past nine, Hermione slipped under her red- and gold-coloured duvet. Deciding that she'd leave everything until the morrow, she fell into a restless dream consisting of Flitwick charming purple slices of tiramisu into Cornelius Fudge's large, spotted buttocks.

–

Oliver Wood woke up to a startling sight. It was like déjà vu, having being greeted by the shimmer of velvet bed curtains in the morning. Actually, deja vu wasn't quite the right term. And, upon checking his clock, it was actually quarter to noon, and he was inexcusably late for work.

"Shit." Oliver tore out of his room, pulling on his robes on the way to the Quidditch pitch, fastening the last button just as he appeared to a catastrophic class being supervised by Harry Potter and his friend Red-haired What's-his-face. Rob. No, Ron. That was it.

"Walters! Stop taunting the Whomping Willow!" yelled Harry in horror, just before the seventeen-year old was hit in the back of the head by a renegade broomstick whose rider was lost in its flight. Meanwhile, Ron was having his own problems, trying to chase down a pair of First Years who had the impulsive desire to elope right then and there during Flying class. Half a mile up in the air, the faint call of, "YOU'RE RUINING YOUR FUTURES!" could barely be heard.

_This is going to result in a very big migraine_, thought Oliver, as he set out to restore order to this mad, mad scene.

By dinnertime, the newly-commissioned flying coach was having second thoughts about taking up this job. He was physically and psychologically worn, as if he had just played a seven-hour long professional match against Puddlemere's biggest rivals, the Tutshill Tornadoes and had learned that they had to do it all over again – riding turtles instead.

_I can handle little tykes falling off their broomsticks, but to see them somehow drill three feet into the ground with one?_ Oliver could hardly hold a fork to his mouth. So _this_ was what being overpowered by a crippling sense of exasperation must feel like...

Oliver excused himself from the table, hoping to take a long soak in the bath – wherever one of those could be found. He quietly left the table and exited quickly from the Great Hall, inwardly making a resolution never to have children of his own.

Absentmindedly, the young Keeper blundered through the next door he saw – how convenient that it turned out to be a spa-like accommodation, complete with relaxing music and revolving disco lights. It suddenly registered in Oliver's mind that this could be the alleged Room of Requirement that he had doggedly searched for when he was still attending Hogwarts. The exhausted individual removed his robes and unbuttoned his shirt and slacks in preparation for a luxurious unwinding. _This almost makes up for today_, he thought with a little more esteem.

–

Hermione watched Oliver leaving supper – actually, she watched him all during supper as well. He was definitely not the energetic youth he used to be. Hogwarts' new celebrity didn't look like he appreciated the favour of the job at all; she didn't see him smile or speak the entire time. Infuriated (though upon retrospect, she would come to wonder where all this anger stemmed from), Hermione left the Hall shortly after Wood did, half wanting to complete her Ancient Runes class thesis, half wanting to finally confront the vexatious man. But what Hermione fully wanted was closure, though from what she still couldn't figure out. It was an aimless pursuit – the girl had unknowingly transformed into a fanatic without a cause. Maybe she wanted to catch _him_ half-dressed and totally off his guard – that would mix things up a bit, now wouldn't it? Hermione smirked at this outrageous notion.

She turned the corner, absent-mindedly gliding through the first door on the left. She was surprised to encounter quite a lot of steam billowing everywhere that smelled tranquilly of floral essences. When the mist parted, however, Hermione emitted a high shriek, turning red and covering her eyes (though actually peeking surreptitiously through her fingers). Hogwarts' Quidditch Coach substitute coach stood buff naked with his back to her, running his hands through his thick chestnut locks of hair and looking totally...

_Hot? No! More like a caveman_, _or an ogre,_ Hermione's conscience corrected, but having some reservations about his looking like a caveman. Honestly, he was more like a young Mel Gibson from the back. Even her conscience was being slowly hypnotized by the clouded air. Her legs turned into pillars of lead when the Devil himself reared his seductive head.

She could almost see Oliver's pupils contract, as he panicked and fell into the Jacuzzi beside him. Hermione emitted yet another high-pitched scream, not knowing what to do but stand there and feel so embarrassed she could have a heart attack.

* * *

Author's Note: Okay that's it. Not quite the ending I wanted but I hope you guys were satisfied with it.

Anyway, I discovered quite an INTERESTING fact earlier today: Only**TWO PERCENT** of people who came to this page were considerate enough to leave a review! Now isn't that just…confounding? Or just plane insane! In the membrane! (i.e. please review :D. Tell me whether you liked it, hated it, thought it was too mushy/cheesy/sleazy/short/long. Feel free to make predictions, or requests, or corrections. Anything! Anything at all will suffice…)

Well, until next time!


	3. Too Close for Comfort

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I was so unsatisfied with my first draft that I scrapped it and started again. Anyway, um, yes. Go ahead:

– **Chapter 3: Too Close for Comfort –**

"Geez, Granger!" spluttered Oliver upon resurfacing. "I kinda' suspected that you might have intended to get even, but ambushing people while they're in the buff?"

"I didn't INTEND to get anything! Besides, no one's keeping score around here," snapped Hermione, who kept her gaze focused squarely above the man's shoulders. "Are you even authorized to be in this room?"

Oliver reclined, in a more comfortable position, folding his arms behind his head. "Well, it's not like I've got any complaints yet."

Hermione was incredulous as she raised her hands to the air as if to insinuate, 'Um, HELLO? What about me!' She was totally exasperated at that nerve of his.

"Join me."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, seeing that it's already set up and all, it'd be a shame to enjoy this luxury all by myself," explained Oliver coyly, gesturing to the lavishly equipped spa facility.

Hermione donned an expression not unlike that of a deer caught in the headlights as she was forced to mull over what to say next. She momentarily pictured herself in her lilac undergarments, simmering in a Jacuzzi with one of England's own celebrity athlete. If it gave her pleasant shudders even when he merely looked at her, the girl might possibly black out if he got close enough to touch her.

Meanwhile, Oliver was having fun teasing the worry-wart Head Girl. He didn't actually mean what he said; after all, she _was_ a student. But as she wrung her hands with her eyes cast to the side, Oliver took in the girl's thin build and delicate features. In all the frenzy, the top buttons of her blouse had come undone, revealing tanned olive skin and the telltale hint of her cleavage. So the girl _was_ busy over the summer. Oliver had to increase the amount of bubbles in the tub, fearing that the situation could get a little bit more awkward. For the record, the twenty-two year old hadn't gotten laid for almost two weeks now – in a man's mind that was the equivalent of an eternity.

"'Mione, is that you? Oh, hey Oliver!" Harry Potter's head popped in through the door that had been left ajar. Hermione uttered a sigh of relief; her knight in broken spectacles had saved her from the provocative villain in the nude.

"Oi, Potter. Come join us, we were about to have a bubble bath."

"No thanks," Harry replied cheerfully. "We've got classes tomorrow. And don't you have to instruct?"

Oliver waved his hand dismissively, a bit surprised at the boy's good nature despite the fact that another man had just fraternized with his girlfriend. Good ol' Potter.

Harry led a speechless Hermione out of the room after wishing his former teammate goodnight, and the two commenced their winding trek back to the Gryffindor Tower.

"Gosh, it seems like I haven't seen you for ages," remarked Harry, still keeping a tight hold on her hand.

"Yeah... I guess we've just been so busy with our lives," said Hermione, wincing at the generic quality of her comment.

Suddenly Harry stopped walking. He turned to her, gazing meaningfully into her eyes. Hermione was so startled by the seriousness of his crystalline blue eyes and the sudden intimacy between them that she attempted to back away from their awkward propinquity. However, her spine collided into the wooden banister of the staircase, and Harry proceeded to press even closer.

"Hermione, I care so much about you."

"I-I care about you too," she replied, her words more stilted than his. There seemed to be no escape – though why she was looking for one she didn't know.

His face deviated towards hers as he whispered, "I'd die for you, you know that."

"Harry, don't say things like tha--"

He dove into a kiss, his lips crushing into hers longingly. His body language screamed of teenage hormones as he ran his hands down the sides of her arms, resting at her hips.

"No, stop!" Hermione pushed away from his, gasping for air.

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

Truthfully, she had to ponder on how to answer his question. Ever since the two had hooked up a month ago at the Burrow, they had upheld a cute and fluffy relationship – holding hands, buying matching scarves, etcetera. Nothing at all serious, and nothing even close to being impassioned. Maybe they were kidding themselves, Hermione realized just then. There was no real spark – at least not for her. It broke her heart to think of their future as two parts to a one-sided relationship, with Harry obliviously intoxicated by their togetherness, and Hermione sinking into a hole of despondence. _Stop being such an extremist and deal with it!_ screeched her conscience suddenly, breaking Hermione from her lapse of silence.

"'Mione?"

"Harry, I'm sorry. You deserve better," she blurted out, running away before he could see her tears. She left Harry on the darkened staircase, alone, confused, and shattered.

–

Oliver tossed and turned in his large four-poster bed, unable to sleep. He had left the Room of Requirement not long after the departure of the two seventh-years. Spas were admittedly not as enjoyable when alone. After getting hopelessly lost in Hogwarts' complex professor's wing for more than an hour, the man finally found his way to his private dorm room.

It was in the dead of the night now, and Oliver still wasn't in the least bit drowsy, despite having had to endure the frantic day that had been thrust upon him. Maybe it was because he kept picturing one such sassy young woman, with her untamable hair and persona, and her frustrating immunity to his charms. Oliver wasn't used to being the chaser (ha-ha, mind the pun). He'd usually just have to walk past a girl to garner her interest. Now Hermione, on the other hand, was a challenge. _She...was definitely...formidable..._

A soft light gradually illuminated the room, partnered with the intrusion of a stimulating aroma... lilac? Oliver wondered what was going on until he saw the outline of a slender figure at the threshold of his room.

How did she get in..?

"Professor Wood," lilted a sensual voice. It was Hermione. She edged towards his bed, clad in a translucent gossamer slip that ended just below her hips. "Professor, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

His breath became bated as she drew close, her slender fingers caressing his dark hair. He was too mesmerized to talk.

"Touch me."

But not mesmerized enough to act. The young man lashed out like a hungry lion, pulling her into his bed as they initiated a savage lust-filled battle. Her lips locked boldly with his as he ran his hands up and down her body, moaning with urgency. Hermione pulled away after the moment of raw physical exertion, smiling secretively. After their torrential tryst, she came out completely flawless and immaculate, whereas he felt like a panting, sweaty beast. He wanted to lunge onto her again, wanted to release all his pent-up sexual tension, but she made her move first.

Hermione slithered like a snake above his body, gently pushing him back onto the bed. Oliver lay down abidingly, aware of this new-found sense of defenselessness, as she doled feathery kisses along his jaw line, making her way down to his neck.

"_Oh God_," he breathed, his body tensing up when she hit a sensitive spot. His hardening erection brushed against Hermione's inner thigh, and had to restrain himself from finishing the business. The patience was torturous, but rushing the matter would wholly ruin the experience.

Hermione gripped his sturdy pectoral muscles, her eyes lighting up with recognition. Oliver silently thanked his coach for all those back-breaking physical workouts that had effectively developed his physique. Even the women on his team were superhumanly buff – in fact, any one of them could probably beat him in an arm wrestling match if the occasion arose. He was proud to be able to say he knew his Amazonian teammates. They were just like the "guys", drinking beer, getting sweaty, and doing everything that a male could do and more.

But this woman instilled awe in Oliver's mind. He was slightly intimidated by her _spiritual_ presence, the way she moved, the way she made his body ache for her. Oliver groaned audibly as she flicked her tongue against his nipples. He arched his back, trying to be in with touch more of her, but again the maverick pulled away.

Hermione kissed icy trails down below his bellybutton, hovering over the waistline of his boxers. Oliver held his breath in utter anticipation. He wanted her _now_. He needed her so badly and he suspected that she knew it.

The Head Girl slid his boxers down slowly, gasping at the sight of his erect package.

"Granger," he growled her name, frustrated that she wouldn't go faster. He was embarrassed to hear a choking sound come out of his throat as she gripped his shaft with her hand, slowly sliding up and down. God, he loved sex, he thought as her movements quickened.

Just as he was about to go over the edge, she stopped. _Why the fuck did she stop?_ he demanded inwardly, pounding the wall with vexation.

"Shall I oblige?"

Before Oliver could comprehend what she was saying, her lips had already covered the tip of his penis. He convulsed in gratitude, his mind feeling as if he were going to fly to the moon with pleasure. By instinct he gripped her hair and held on for the ride.

Hermione was some kind of goddess. She maneuvered her tongue the right way, getting him to react with wanton abandon. Her head slip up and down his pulsating package, causing him to gradually climax until he came into her mouth; she swallowed almost graciously.

"Dirty girl," he managed to mutter breathlessly after he had caught his breath.

Hermione grinned, hopping off the bed. "Just wait 'til I get my whip. Be back in a flash!"

"What!"

Oliver awoke, sitting up so fast that he garnered a painful head rush. "It was all a dream. All fucking fabricated," he groaned, disappointed in a way.

However, the pleasure felt real – the Keeper's bed sheets continued to form a sort of tent (if you know what I mean). He fell back onto his pillows, perspiration beading on every part of his body.

It felt real.

– **end –**

Okay, that's all for now. Hope you liked it. Oh my gosh, I am so addicted to reviews. I know it's sad, but many times I'd catch myself siting around with the 'Stats' page on, refreshing every 30 seconds to see if a new review popped up.

YES, YOU MUST FEED THE STARVING WRITER. If I could hypnotize you I would.

_Review...you know you want to..._


	4. Thawing the Ice Queen

Author's Note: Hey, sorry for the delay. There have been several diversions that kept me from submitting this chapter sooner. Anyway, and I must apologize because for the next month or so I will be immersed in some frivolous summer course and will not be around to update. Anyway…and I'm please that this turned out to be considerably longer than the other chapters – it just happened to come out that way!

Just to warn you, don't blame me if the characters (namely Hermione) become a little too flamboyant. Just remember that all these years of being top of the class and excelling in every aspect of academia and especially obtaining the position of Head Girl HAS to inevitably gone to her head. Well, that said and done, you have permission to READ ON, folks!

- **Chapter 3: Thawing the Ice Queen** -

It was two days later and Hermione had already begun to doubt her rash actions. In retrospect, maybe she and Harry _were_ meant for each other and she was just too ignorant and naive at the time to know it. What if he would never be able to recover after she had so callously broken his heart and run away? Hermione trudged dejectedly into the Great Hall, hoping that she could corner Harry for a heart-to-heart talk.

Since the incident, the two hadn't spoken to, or even acknowledged, one another. Hermione wanted to give him room to grieve, and assumed that Harry's soul was too weighed down from rejection that he didn't dare approach her. Ron noticed the increase in tension between the trio, but knew little about what had actually taken place. He had unknowingly assumed the role of middleman for the suddenly disunited couple, acting as the glue that would hold them shakily together for now. You have to agree, that _is _a very undesirable position to be in.

Today, however, Ron was not present during lunch, signifying to Hermione that it was high time to act. Maybe mistakes could be fixed. She wanted to apologize to him, tell him that he meant more to him than she had shown that night on the banister. That she could learn to love him, if they both worked hard enough at it.

She spotted Harry amidst the Gryffindor table, appearing a bit red in the face. _Aw_, thought Hermione to herself, _he's utterly ashamed at being alone_. But as she approached the poor, lonely Harry, she noticed that he was actually not at all poor or lonely at all! Hermione felt her blood boil as Cho Chang's flirtatious trill of a voice floated tauntingly by her ears. The two sat together over a stack of pancakes, licking the syrup off each other's fingers.

Harry had obviously moved on.

Hermione felt the room spin around her, and had to hold on to the table ledge to keep from fainting. This was not happening to her. Being with a Head Girl should not be an experience to so easily get over. _Hermione Granger_ was the one who dumped, not the other way around! Wasn't she the world to Harry? – Whatever happened to not being able to survive without each other? Whatever happened to him willing to die for her!

Bewildered thoughts like these gouged Hermione's mind as she stumbled out of the Hall, dangerously disconcerted. How could this have happened? What unintended clue did Hermione insinuate that so happened to have given Harry the thumbs up to roam freely in the pastures of singlehood?

The deadening memory of that night all came flooding back yet again. "I don't deserve you," she had said. So I guess his actions weren't totally unprecedented then, thought Hermione with reluctant resignation. "But as of now, _he_ is the one who doesn't deserve me."

The life-changing epiphany came fast and hard. Harry was a thing of the past, kaput: he had run for the hills and fell off a cliff. Hermione wouldn't lock herself up in her dorm pining away while depleting the entire world's stock of Bertie Botts' chocolate boxes and reading smutty Harlequin novels. Instead, the Head Girl would reinvent her ambitions and devote herself to her schoolwork and duties. No more dallying around with the Boy Who Lived, or any other male for that matter. She would just be much too busy and important to bother with any extraneous activities, namely dating.

It was a sure-fire way to heighten her spirits, and let all the gossip-hungry students out there know who really the one suffering from the breakup was. Hermione scoffed at the word – already things like that seemed trivial and immature to her enlightened mind. How could she have survived living like that before she did not know.

-

Oliver shifted uncomfortably in front of the Ravenclaw-Slytherin charms class as he read off the daily bulletin. Flitwick was nursing an unfortunate case of the mumps, and Oliver was the only available member of the Hogwarts staff to fill in for that particular class. He glanced nervously at the lesson plan: Freezing and Thawing charms? He didn't remember learning that in his sixth year!

"Erm...Attention please, clasp – I mean class...Open up your blocks – I mean books to page seventy-four and we can stat...start," he stuttered, flipping frantically at his teacher's manual. How in hell do you cast a Freezing charm?

"So Professor Wood," drawled a platinum blonde Slytherin whose dark roots were showing on her head and wore too much eye shadow, "How big is your broomstick?"

"Big enough, thank you," he snapped, suddenly feeling like an antelope surrounded by several vicious lions.

"Do you like to play rough?" asked a sly-looking Ravenclaw, her seemingly innocent tone veined with innuendo. He doubted she was referring to the Quidditch aspect of life.

Oliver was lost for words, a sign for everybody else to attack.

"Do you often ride your broomstick alone at night?"

"How fast can you go, Professor Wood?"

"Do you fondle your Quaffles?"

"That's it!" shouted Oliver, dismayed to see the satisfied looks on his class's faces. "I will not tolerate any more of this insubordination. Girls, detention tonight in my office."

"Ooo...Are you going to punish us, Professor?"

Oliver's gaze hardened. "The trophy case desperately needs polishing," he answered gravely. "Now will you please open your books?"

The recollection of how to conduct the charms in the lesson plan thankfully returned to his memory as Wood cast the freezing charm on a glass of water.

"Wow, it must be really cold up there," remarked the "blonde" Slytherin, her voice dripping with malice as she eyed Oliver's pectorals.

"Oh god," he muttered, stalking out of the classroom in humiliation and rage.

"Aw, Professor, you don't have to always be so STIFF all the time!" they shouted at his retreating back, not even trying to stifle their laughter.

-

Hermione was on a roll. So far she had deducted a total of fifteen points and awarded twenty to various ill-/well-behaved students, confiscated eleven dung bombs, received perfect on three consecutive quizzes, and avoided human interaction whenever possible.

However, as she walked into the Great Hall during dinner, the newly-inducted singleton noticed that she was garnering more than her fair share of sympathetic looks. Hermione had no idea what was going on, not even when whispers cascaded down the table and all eyes were suddenly focused upon her while she obliviously buttered her roll.

But it all came crashing down on her when Parvati Patil asked, "So, hon, how are you taking being dumped?"

Hermione was aghast. She got up faster than you could say "flobberworm" and bolted outside, suddenly not able to breathe. Everybody thought that she was the one suffering from the separation, not the other way around! All those eyes staring at her were filled with pity, and there was really nothing about her to pity! Her plan had gone to ruins – she felt much worse than this morning at that moment, stumbling blindly around the school grounds.

She fell upon the bleachers surrounding the Quidditch pitch, sobbing bitterly and wishing that everybody would just sod off and leave her to die. She mourned the tragic passing of her supremacy, her prestige, and her integrity. Seven years of work aspiring to the top swirled down the proverbial toilet as of today, and it was improbable that it could ever be restored.

_It's all Cho's doing_, realized Hermione suddenly. That rotten skank. She manipulated the entire school to think I'm some mourning, desperate tramp who happened to fall victim to Harry Potter's "heroic charms"_. They were all wrong,_ she insisted to nobody, banging her fist on the wood. They all had no idea. Stupid disillusioned prats.

And as if things couldn't get any worse, the rain started to pour fast and hard, each drop impacting like a spiteful reminder of every aspect of her life that would suffer from this.

Oh how the tides have turned, she mused bitterly, too consumed by her sorrows to notice a most unconventional angel circling above.

-

Oliver had been flying for close to an hour now, magicking a Quaffle to torpedo towards the three hoops for him to block. And he did, with the adept accuracy only found in professional Quidditch. Tonight, however, his moves were a little more unrestrained, as he vented the frustration that had accumulated since acquiring his position at Hogwarts.

THWACK The Quaffle spun madly away, having come in contact with the hilt of his broom. Everything seemed to have gone wrong from day one.

THWACK The ball, now wheezing slightly, made another arc into the black curtains of the night. Why don't they respect me? I'm a grown man for god's sakes!

THWACK The Quaffle gave up after one last whollop, the spell knocked completely out of it. The ball spiraled to the ground, while the rain ceased to miss a cue and began to plummet in sheets from the sky. Oliver was drenched almost instantly, and frankly didn't have the energy to care. He tipped his head back, letting the rain wash away the sweat and the anxiety from his body, from his mind. The descent down to earth felt like he was slowly being cradled down by the wind, until the faint cry of a certain damsel in distress brought the serenity to a screeching halt.

"Who the fuck...?" Oliver surveyed the surroundings, wondering who else would be bonkers enough to be out in this weather. He almost wasn't surprised when he spied Hermione Granger curled up on the side of the pitch, contributing her tears to the torrents of rain already drowning the school grounds.

"Granger! What in hell are you doing out here?" he exclaimed, fighting to be heard over the downpour. He ran towards her, hoping that the silly girl hadn't caught pneumonia already or something.

Oliver could barely discern the yammering of the limp pile of robes that was Hermione, but he could somewhat make out: "Grades...Harry fucking Potter with fucking Cho's fucking perfect slutty ears...hair's ruined now...as sad as Longbottom..."

"Oh god." How could he reach her? The girl was unquestionably delirious for reasons (thankfully) unknown. "Come on, let's get inside," he coaxed, as if she was a dangerous animal.

Oliver tried to scoop up the shivering bundle in his arms, but Hermione only retaliated furiously, just like he expected that she would. "Geroff!" she slurred, her former state of crying having induced hiccups. "I may have lost my dignity but I'll be damned if you take away my pride..."

Did that even make sense?

Oliver shook his head in a bewildered manner, and walked close by to the staggering Hermione as they stumbled the long trek back to the school.

"My office is this way," he said in a futilely low voice. Upon entering through the grand doorway, their position was given away by squeaking of their shoes echoing conspicuously off all the walls of the building while leaving a trail of water and mud behind them. Many unfortunate souls had happened to come across the trail not long after it had been laid, ending up slipping every which way, crashing into walls and whatnot – you know, doing every possible thing that made Argus Filch's job a living hell in the fall.

"Oi, Woody Two-Shoes! Bedding the broomhead?"

Oh no. Peeves.

"Well, how would ya' like it if I went and told Dumbie-dore that the oh-so-glamourous Quidditch player was fraternizing with the students?" cackled the poltergeist, hanging by his toes onto the chandelier above them.

"Sod off, Peeves, or I'll sic the Baron on you," threatened Oliver, trying to put on his most intimidating no-nonsense face. He breathed a sigh of relief as the interfering specter zoomed away with only a nervous twitter and no more.

Hermione was still sniffing softly as they reached Madame Hooch's office, now currently occupied by Oliver. The door shut behind them as he rushed around to start a fire and calm the girl down.

"Come, now let's get out of these wet clothes," said Oliver, not waiting for Hermione to reply before he stripped out of his own soaked robes.

"You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to get me naked," Hermione managed to snarl before convulsing in a sequence of sneezes.

Oliver shot her a sceptical look as he handed her a towel. "You're going to get sick if you insist on sitting there miserably all night." Bare except for a loose pair of slacks, Oliver felt quite cozy in the toasty office. It seemed like the quintessential setup to a very romantic night indeed – drinking wine and rolling around wildly on the carpet included. However, he seriously doubted that this night would end up that way as Hermione glared darkly at the man until he turned away, rolling his eyes.

"You know, being so high-strung all the time is just going to give you ulcers," reasoned Oliver, noticing with guilty amusement that the window reflected what Hermione didn't want him to see. Even when her hair was reminiscent of a drowned rat's pelt and her lips were practically blue from the cold, the girl exuded her own charming portrayal of sensuality – the way she walked so confidently and with pride, how she scolded just about every student who crossed her path. Inwardly he wished she would tell him off for being bad, and then shag wildly on his desk afterwards. Her soaked robes clung revealingly to her curves, leaving Oliver hard-pressed to fight back his arousal.

"Ohh, it's so c-cold," chattered Hermione, collapsing onto a chair nearby a fire and hugging the towel close around her shoulders. Oliver turned, genuinely concerned. Hermione was wrapped tightly in the fluffy white garb, emulating a huge human burrito. Her breath stopped suddenly, causing Oliver's heart to skip a beat in anxiety and rush towards her, only to be sprayed in the face by a whooping sneeze.

Oliver tumbled backwards from the shock, his back colliding painfully with the edge of his desk while Hermione snuffled miserably in her chair. Recovering quickly, the brazen wizard wiped his face off and marched back into battle.

"Here, let me check you over," he offered, reaching for her wrist.

Hermione recoiled instantly. "I think you've done enough checking over already. Look, I'm just going to Madame Pomfrey and she'll take care of me."

"What, and explain why you're soaking wet and on the brink of an emotional meltdown?"

Reluctantly, she settled back down onto the chair, but continued to watch him apprehensively.

"Here, I've been trained to evaluate physical conditions --"

"I'm sure you have," Hermione retorted, her voice dripping with sardonicism.

"I'm an athlete for a living," Oliver said more forcefully. He was becoming annoyed at her agonizingly shrewd disposition. "Injuries happen, and Madame Pomfrey isn't always around to heal us."

Hermione wordlessly conceded, but retained an untrusting look on her face. Oliver took her wrist and checked her pulse. He then stood and propped one knee on the chair as he leaned towards her face.

"W-What are you doing?" exclaimed Hermione, shrinking into the back of the seat.

"Calm down, I'm just examining your pupils."

He brushed her hair away delicately and cupped her cheek with his hand. He looked into her copper-tinged orbs, as they stared back, wavering slightly. Oliver acknowledged that she was still very cold, her skin like ice against his fingers.

"Do you trust me?"

-

"Do you trust me?" he had said, his sharp hazel eyes never leaving hers. Hermione shuddered, this time from the tension between them, the pulsing electricity binding them together. Her senses felt suddenly heightened as she fell victim to a rush of several sensations every time his fingers grazed her skin. They were so close that for neither of them to react felt like an infringement of Mother Nature's intentions.

"I have to get you warm somehow," he said in a low voice, his eyes searching her body. The magnitude what was happening that moment never really got to sink in: Hermione was sheltered beneath the shadow of a famous athlete, their bodies almost touching – a position that many other girls would likely kill for. Hermione gasped as her cocoon of a towel fell away, exposing her to the elements and to the man. She was so very cold.

Oliver ushered her out of the chair, pressing the girl close against her. "You're freezing," he remarked, his arms entangling behind her back. He wrapped the towel around them both, Hermione's blanched skin burning against his, glad he couldn't see her blushing face.

She felt Oliver smirk into the dampened tangles of her hair. "I'm surprised you haven't gone mental on me already."

"Just wait," murmured Hermione into his chest, finally feeling the tingle of warmth creep back into her fingers. The memory of a revival exercise like this from her first aid classes in primary school re-entered her mind, though she didn't remember it being quite so erotic. "And don't try anything funny!"

-

Oliver kept his hands determinedly clasped around her back, start. "You have no idea the amount of self-control I'm exerting right now," he thought, gritting his teeth.

Hermione adjusted her head, allowing it to rest soundly at the crook of his collarbone. "You know, most boys would probably have tried to get into my knickers by know."

Oliver just locked his jaw, the perspiration collecting on his temples.

The young girl then disentwined herself from around his neck, holding him an arm's length apart. Oliver noticed that her lips were severely red now, the warmth back in her face. She cocked her head to one side and asked inquisitively, "Professor, are you gay?"

"Fuck it." Something snapped inside the man at her words, all remnants of self-constraint obliterated. He slammed Hermione against the wall, delving voraciously into a kiss that left both of them breathless. She gasped upon impact, allowing her attacker to invade her mouth with much zeal. The clash of their bodies and his heated growls subjugated Hermione's lame protests.

"Professor, stop... No, please...Oh god, don't stop, don't stop!"

Oliver vaguely registered the taste of her lips, the feel of her flesh against his tongue, amidst all the fervent desperation. He wanted to savour every facet of her, wanted it all now – but as swiftly as his hands roamed her body or his mouth caress hers, he couldn't have it nearly fast enough.

"Guess you're not one to beat around the bush," breathed Hermione, writhing against his own restless form.

"Depends which bush you're talking about," Oliver replied in a slurred voice, his fingers running suggestively over the thin fabric of her underwear, though every time he tried to pull them down Hermione slapped his hands away.

"Scared Granger?" he growled, her agreeable moans music to his ears.

"Sex has many disagreeable consequences," retorted Hermione, her fingernails digging into his back, leaving red streaks across his tan skin – battle scars, if you will.

"Sworn yourself to celibacy already? Pity," said Oliver, more than a little bit distracted by the more urgent matter at hand.

"Why is that a pity?" Hermione was growing flirtatious – well, as flirtatious as an uptight bookworm could get. She was returning his advances, getting bolder by the second. Her build was slight compared to his height, causing her to stretch to meet his kisses, her toes barely grazing the floor as she hung tightly onto his sturdy physique.

Hermione and Oliver had become so immersed in their tryst that the patter of footsteps and giggling went undetected until they were almost at the door.

"Shit, I forgot about detention." In one swift motion Oliver stuffed Hermione into the wardrobe beside his desk and grabbed the first jacket he could see – incidentally one of Madame Hooch's floral nightgowns. He watched helplessly as various Slytherin and Ravenclaw girls flooded into his office without knocking, and listened to them erupt in audible whispers concerning his bare torso. Oliver could only hold the flowery dress in front of his pants to conceal any bulge that had arouse from his previous appointment and brace himself for the worst.

"Were you expecting us, Professor?" piped a beady-eyed Slytherin, her gaze conspicuously fixated below his belt.

Oliver cleared his throat, feinting a flimsy mask of confidence. If he showed any sign of weakness at all, the vultures would swoop down and eat him alive. "You know why you're here, girls. I was extremely disappointed in your...behaviour...this afternoon –"

"Really? You looked like you were rather enjoying it."

"_Mr. Filch_ is going to enjoy your assistance in polishing the trophy case tonight."

"Oh, but we'd much rather polish your broomstick."

Oliver flinched, a ridiculous-looking floral nightgown his only defense now.

-

Hermione peered curiously through the crack in the wardrobe at the pack of sixth-years, noticing that their blouses were buttoned down much too low for this chilly autumn night. Then again, it was mighty hypocritical of her to talk at the moment, seeing as she was barely clad in lacey knickers and a bra.

She was quite surprised as well as amused when the girls started to corner the poor man, probing him with one invasive question after the next, bravely and daringly testing his nerve. Hermione almost admired their unabashed method of interaction, but was instantly horrified as one of them actually made a grab for his ass.

A stifled hiccough of indignation ran got caught in her throat as the Head Girl had the impulse to stop this insubordinate attitude. She searched the wardrobe as discreetly as she could, finally finding a robe that would best suit – though it was still considerably larger than what she was used to. She took one last peek out through her clandestine hiding spot: They were all over Oliver now. Hermione wondered why he didn't do something – charm them into a stupor or something.

_Probably because they were underage witches_. But then why was he so debonair with her?

Her contemplations were interrupted as a Ravenclaw girl got close enough to run her hands along his face. Ugh, now it was just vexing her how skanky some of them could get.

Bursting out of the wardrobe like a troublemaker's worst Boggart apparition, Hermione confidently stood on her tiptoes so as to disguise the ill-fitting robe, and proceeded to bear over the entire company.

"Excuse me, young ladies! Check your impertinent behaviour before the lot of you get knocked up by some Knockturn Alley underachiever and end up pregnant and domesticated for the rest of your lives! Now file off to Filch's office before Professor Wood here is forced to deduct points from your Houses."

The girls were speechless as one by one they retreated from the stuffy office, hissing loudly about a certain bushy-haired prick ruining their fun. Oliver promptly slammed the door behind the last one, garnering a miffed squawk, and sagged against it, relieved.

"I'm so grateful I could kiss you," he said, running his hands through his hair - a very provocative gesture, even if he knew it or not.

"I think once tonight is quite sufficient, Professor Wood," replied Hermione curtly, picking up her sopping robes from the floor and turning to leave the room.

"Call me Oliver."

"Oliver it is, then," she said, not meeting his eye as she walked past.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he called after her as she stalked down the hall, his robes dragging on the floor in her small build.

"It's Granger to you," she shot over her shoulder, turning the corner.

Little did either know, while out of each other's sight, Hermione and Oliver simultaneously collapsing against their respective walls, spent.

- The End -

Okay, that's it for now. I'll try to get another chapter up by Labour Day. In the meanwhile, have a fantastic summer everybody!


	5. In Her Eyes

Oh my goodness, it's been an entire year! It's all coming back to me now. I've got loads more time to burn now, so hopefully I can continue writing. Hope you enjoy!

-

The next week went by relatively uneveventfully – by Hogwarts standards, at least. To the student population, Hermione seemed to have fully rebounded from the initial shock of seeing her ex's face being practically eaten by another person. Only a certain perceptive Slytherin noticed that something had changed about the usually close-bloused Head Girl.

"You got laid, didn't you?" he accused suddenly one night. The two were discussing administrative issues over an evening snack in the empty Great Hall when Draco altogether disregarded their current dull debate.

Hermione choked on her tea, her high cheekbones turning a violent shade of pink. "H-How did you – I mean, that's a completely absurd assumption to make, Malfoy!" she sputtered, anxiously shuffling the parchment in front of her.

"So I'm right!" he smirked triumphantly. "Now as your Head Boy, I command that you dish on all the juicy details, you dirty little skank."

Hermione attempted to scoff away Draco's unimaginative, misogynistic jabs, but instead emitted a high squeak. After nervously tucking her thick curls behind her ear, she managed to rattle off, "First of all, you are not in any position to command _anything_ out of me. And furthermore, as the Head Boy you so pompously claim yourself to be, your horridly offensive range of vocabulary and treatment towards women is in need of dire amendment, you slimy, egotistical cad …How could you possibly have come to a conclusion like that, anyway?" Hermione let the last sentence fall haphazardly out of her lips, morbidly incredulous and reluctantly curious.

"I can see it in your eyes," he drawled, his sharp tongue dripping with satisfaction. "How charming," he cooed, reaching over to pinch the girl's cheek before she slapped his hand away, "my darling little Mudblood is finally opening up to the world, if you know what I mean."

Hermione groaned in frustration. "Malfoy, for the record, I did _not_ get laid! Now let's please drop the subject." She had no qualms releasing that statement, seeing as Oliver had only stolen a kiss from her. And as heated as that encounter was, she had made sure she had walked away with her panties intact.

"Whatever, Granger," he replied, making it clear to her that he did not buy her story one bit. "But if you ever find yourself in a compromising position, you are more than welcome to come crying to me. You know I always save my best insults for you."

And just like that, the two reverted back to their original discussion on the confiscation policy of dung bombs. Though, Hermione made certain to guard the look in her eyes – whatever that meant – more closely from the world from then on. Because no matter how aggravating that damn Malfoy could get, his opinion was as solid and scathingly honest as any other's.

-

Oliver Wood made a pact over breakfast Monday morning to swear off women for the rest of his life. It had been more than a week, and the man still had trouble comprehending his actions that rainy, torrential night.

_She'__s fucking seventeen, and a fucking student!_

But the dark side of him argued otherwise. Hermione was much more intelligent than any other woman he had ever met, and was certainly in control of the direction she wanted to go in life.

_Or is__ she? After all, her inexperience makes her impressionable, and easy to take advantage of._

His mind flashed back to that night; her long legs buckling against his, her trembling body pressed up against the wall of his office as he took what he wanted, both physical beings barely on the edge of control.

Oliver realized that the situation was in _his_ power, and he had to stop his lustful coercion with the girl before it could get any more out of hand.

Just then, his sharp Keeper eyes caught her shape coming into the Great Hall, accompanied closely by the holier-than-thou presence of Draco Malfoy. Oliver scrutinized the pair carefully, almost possessively, but the unconventional duo seemed to exude a solely professional connection between them.

Satisfied, he sat back in his chair, but continued to watch her from the corner of his consciousness throughout the rest of the morning.

Yes, ending it would be harder than he had hoped.

-

After classes, Hermione headed out to the Quidditch pitch with the pretence of wanting to watch Harry and Ron fly. Really, though, she had the intention of spying on the only man on her mind for the past few weeks.

Thankfully a whole crowd of students were gathered in the stands, observing Professor Wood as he gave the school's Keepers a special coaching session.

_Really, he was quite beautiful in the air__. Hell, he's beautiful all the time,_ admitted Hermione. The man's lean and muscular frame complimented his acrobatic ability on the broomstick, as he swerved, dipped, rose, and stopped on a hatpin – eliciting much applause and awe from the adoring students watching. Hermione, however, refused to even let her mouth relax from its pursed formation, knowing that somewhere in the crowd was a Malfoy waiting to pounce on her slightest admittance.

Oliver made a graceful sweep closer over the bleachers and curved to a halt near his goal posts to boyishly sweep his chestnut hair out of his eyes. A collective swoon washed over all the girls in the crowd, but Hermione merely deepened her frown.

"Oh Merlin, just look at his tan!" gushed Lavender Brown two seats away from her. _If her friend only knew just how much of his skin she had seen, she'd be dead from the eye daggers of jealousy directed towards her,_ thought Hermione to herself wryly.

Hermione decided to leave and attempt to focus on her studies for the first time since his arrival. As she turned and headed for the school, however, she missed a pair of distracted hazel eyes watching her retreat from a distance.

-

_History of Now-Extinct Tubular Fungi in Anglo-Saxon Potion-making:_

_Wormtongue and Sallowsprout can be found in the geographical regions of Oliver Wood…_

Hermione threw her book down in frustration. Her thoughts were continually jarred by visions of that insufferably smug jock. Why couldn't she shut him out of her mind?

"_I can see it in your eyes."_

There was something about Draco's words that she still couldn't shake from her mind. Hermione impulsively scrambled off of her bed towards her dorm's full-length mirror – coincidentally the same one she had been caught indecent in front of years ago.

"Now what exactly am I revealing?" she wondered aloud, wiggling her eyebrows and staring straight into her reflection. In her opinion, Hermione still looked like Hermione. Her bushy hair was more manic than ever, most likely fed by the stress and anxiety of late. The girl turned to her side to examine her profile. She still felt skinny and awkward, not that many people could tell – what with her robes done up to the highest button all the time. What did he see in her, anyway?

"Okay, now I'm beginning to think that you're just a little bit vain."

"WHAT!" Hermione whipped around to witness a scene of torturous déjà vu. There he was once more, hovering like a shameless voyeur outside her window. This time, however, Hermione's undergarments were hidden securely under tightly done-up robes.

"Professor, do I even have to remind you how inappropriate this is?" shrieked Hermione, ducking behind her bedpost, despite being fully-clothed. Her heart had quickened its pace so rapidly that she feared he could hear her palpitations from across the room. "The other girls could come romping through the door at any minute!"

"They're still making their way back from the grounds, I believe," replied Oliver, his hair still sexily mussed from flying in the wind. "We have about five minutes – less if you don't let me in and someone spots me up here."

Hermione nodded slightly, momentarily losing her voice. He was there in the flesh – and in her _bedroom_, no less! And as he climbed soundlessly through the window, she could feel the tension between them mount and reach the boiling point.

Hermione quickly uttered a complex locking spell on the door and turned to face him, her arms folded protectively across her chest. "What do you want, Professor?" she asked in the most neutral tone her shaky voice could handle.

"I saw you in the crowd earlier."

"Yes, along with the rest of the female population of Hogwarts."

Hermione watched uneasily as he carefully laid his broomstick near the window and removed his Quidditch gloves. He took a step forward, causing Hermione's eyes to narrow like a hawk's. "Please, get to the point before someone catches you up here!" she implored, trying to disguise her shallow breaths.

"You were the only one who stood out to me, Miss Granger." He took her ensuing silence as tacit consent for him to go on. "I see you in my dreams." His tone sounded almost helpless.

Hermione's lips parted in surprise at the quiet words that had come to saturate the room with suffocating gravity. _Her_? Plain Jane Granger an object of a sex-god-celebrity-athlete-drop-dead-tauntingly-debonair-hottie's fantasies?

"It's too dangerous," she whispered unconsciously, half-kicking herself for the built-in self-discipline mechanism ingrained in her calculating head.

"Which is why we should end it," he responded calmly.

Something in Hermione snapped. _What the fuck does he think he's doing?! First he builds me up, and then rips the world out from underneath my feet? Bastard. Bloody, smug, womanizing cad!_

"You're right, Hermione," Oliver continued, using her first name. "I'm a professor and you're a student. Moral issues aside, you can imagine what would happen if we were caught. Both of our reputations would be ruined overnight."

"But…" The anger intensified inside the girl's thin frame.

"You're on to doing great things. I wouldn't want this mess to stand in the way of you becoming a reputable witch."

"And why do _you _get to decide my future? With all due respect, _Oliver_, I believe I can handle my own choices." Hermione was trembling from her inner outrage, barely able to contain her emotions.

"Fair enough," he replied, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. "I never meant to imply that you were ever incapable of being independent. I apologize if I've ever taken advantage of you in the past. But I just want to let you know that it wasn't all acted out of recklessness." With a tinge of relief, he could see Hermione relax slightly.

"May I ask one more thing of you, Miss Granger?"

"What is it?" she seethed, her nerves still on edge.

"May I have just one last kiss?"

This sent her over the edge. "YOU BLOODY, IMPOSSIBLE MAN! AFTER ALL OF THAT, YOU STILL EXPECT ME TO LET YOU KISS ME? HOW BLOODY HYPOCRITICAL, PROFESSOR."

"I said we _should_ end it. I never said I wanted to …At least let me find out one last thing." He slowly began to walk towards her.

Hermione stood her ground, hostilely maintaining eye contact with the man who she regarded with a superlative sense of ambivalence. She wanted him, but wouldn't admit it. And now, after all that he had said, she ended up feeling even more conflicted and powerless towards the whole situation.

She could smell his familiar scent now, his body so close they could have melted into each other. He smelled of grass and summer rain and spice. He could have taken her by force, just like he had done before, but this time he remained poised above a delicate face that was now slightly turned away.

"Please. I want to know if there really is something between us," he whispered into her ear. He leaned in towards her, and was surprised when he met no resistance. He brushed lightly across her lips with his, barely touching. Once again, he felt her body tremble beneath his touch, and his suspicions of her inexperience was confirmed.

Hermione Granger, innocent and bookish, was entering into relatively unfamiliar territory. He had hardly noticed before, when they were caught up in an incendiary tangle. But now, with their emotions laid more vulnerable, he could taste the virginal innocence on her sweet flesh.

Oliver gently parted her lips with his tongue, slowly exploring her mouth. Hermione gasped as he touched a sensitive spot, and clung to his body tighter, as if to say she wanted him more. He wrapped his strong arms around her hips, and lifted the girl onto her high four-poster bed. She sat on her crimson bed sheets, framed by his tall presence as he left her mouth to trail kisses down her neck.

"Professor…"

"You said you'd call me Oliver," the man uttered into the dip of her collarbone. Hermione ran her fingers through his chestnut hair, feeling the heat rise in the small room.

To his surprise, she began to loosen her robes, pulling them down to slightly reveal olive-tanned shoulders and skinny, emerald bra straps.

"What, no lilac?" Oliver teased, nipping her left shoulder playfully.

Hermione was about to open her mouth in retort, but the sound of footsteps and girly chirping suddenly rose up from the staircase beyond the door.

"They're back!" she hissed in a panicked voice, jumping up from the bedpost and pushing him towards the window. Oliver grabbed his broomstick hastily and turned once more to lavish Hermione with one last, searing kiss.

Dazed, she found him halfway out the window before she grabbed the edge of his cloak to hold him back. Oliver looked turned back questioningly.

"Let's do it in secret," she proposed hurriedly. "We'll be very careful, so that no one will ever know."

Oliver raised his eyebrow in intrigue at the bold girl's words. He affectionately tucked her dangling robes back over her shoulder. "I'm glad you felt something too," he said before launching himself out into the darkening sky.

Just as he disappeared around the corner, a loud banging jerked Hermione out of her daze. _The locking charm!_

"Hey, bookface, are you in there?"

Hermione quickly waved her wand, admitting a crowd of manic Seventh Year girls.

"Did you see him, Hermione? He was simply _ravishing,"_ gushed Parvati Patil, no doubt talking about a certain young Professor.

"Oh, please, Parvati, pull yourself together," she chided in response, leaning back on to the window sill for support – Merlin knew she needed a breather. Feeling something soft behind her, she turned and saw a pair of leather Quidditch gloves. Oliver must have left them for an excuse to see her again, she thought with a secret smile on her face.

"What's that funny look in your eyes, Herm? You look a little bit dizzy," observed Lavender offhandedly.

"Oh, it must be the heat," she replied casually, tucking the gloves deeply into her pocket.

**-end-**

Author's Note:

Hey everyone! Sorry for the massively delayed update. Haha, school really consumed me for a year, but I'm back now! Hurrah for summer!

I'm trying to remember what I had planned for this fic. It's slowly coming back to me now, so hopefully I'll be able to put it down in words before the next year hits me. Thanks for your patience!


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